A storm is cooking up outside.

The leaves from the black walnut tree just outside my living room window are turning over, belly up to catch the rain. We all need a good washing, don’t we?

The day worked me. Mental mayhem distracted me at times, images of my loved ones on distant shores, in distant countries–it seems. Attempts to communicate with them are seldom met with responses. With several, it feels like I’m sending messages in bottles. Do they reach my loved ones? Do the communication currents send them elsewhere?

It’s days like this that feel the most lonely, like I’m actually stranded. No communication. Various attempts–different media–are blown into the sky, smoke signals lost to the horizon. I miss my people.

Do I need to say I’m speaking metaphorically?

Add to this a day when few moments felt invigorating, like I accomplished nothing after I set out on the day’s journey. My notebook has checkmarks in handwritten boxes saying a different story. This is the untethered, unmoored feeling. Adrift.

I talked about these ideas last night with Rae over cheeseburgers on pretzel rolls. Lostness. It’s nuances. The fascinating dichotomy that Homer lays out of Odysseus wanting to secure his life (psyche) and the homeward journey of his comrades (hetairai). That duality resonates deeply. So much feels at stake with each day, each month passing as a test of having enough to survive and ensure a secure place called home for my hetairai. They do not know the struggles I’ve encountered to achieve some sense of security.

And I don’t know theirs.

Perhaps there’s a silver lining in how oblivious they are to the struggles. Perhaps. These are the things closest to my heart, my psyche and the security of my hetairai. Thoughts about these two have awakened me at night.

Rohr talks about necessary suffering, the kind needed to pry our egocentric youth from our hands. To use another metaphor, a tragedy strong enough to crack the eggshell of a container we’ve created in our first half of life. And truth be told, I’m not physically in danger. I know my basic needs are met. It’s my ego I find washing ashore, a piece in the early morning, two more at midday, a few more at night. I’m distracted with, “Will we be alright? How are their hearts? Are they sad? Are they afraid? How are they doing?”

Another bottle out to sea to see what might come back to me.

Bottle messages

Constellationing

Homesickness